Stories from the Edge

Deadline

I squash bugs.

They come in the morning, from under my bed. Small and black, they run out, little feelers on their heads twitching. Maybe the smell of toast, coming from down the corridor, where the guards are making breakfast, brings them out. I squash them with my foot, under my shoe. There's a small crunch – I hear and feel it. I pick up my foot and look and see the mess of black and yellow on the concrete floor of my cell. Sometimes the little feelers on their heads are still moving. Sometimes they see my foot coming and run in circles, but I get them in the end. Today I squash a big fat one and sweep the mess back under my bed. Maybe its cousins will eat it.

I shift onto one butt cheek and fart and a little puff of warmth cups my backside. Then it feels wet. I stand and walk to the bars of my cell. The smell of toast makes my mouth water. I call out and Frank, one of the guards, comes up. I like Frank. He's one of the good ones. He gives me the morning paper to read. He's holding it now. He smiles at me.

"Hey, Stevo, guess what?" he says. "The Yanks sent up another Gemini rocket. One of the astronauts climbed out for a spacewalk. Pretty exciting, huh? Do you think they'll get to the moon, like they say?"

I shrug. Why would I care?

"My lawyer's gonna call," I say.

Frank looks away and clears his throat. "I'll get you some toast," he says and goes back to the guard's station.

I turn and walk to the wall and stand with my back to it. My breath makes little clouds in front of my face. I hug my blanket closer around my shoulders. I look up at the small window, above my bed. Later the sun will be high enough to shine on my face if I stand here. There's nothing to do. The other cells are empty, the guy next door taken away yesterday morning, for the walk to the room downstairs. To the room where they hang people. I heard the guy's teeth chatter and his feet drag on the floor. I yelled to him but he didn't answer. I wouldn't be like that. I wouldn't be weak. Does being hung hurt? Probably. I remember being in a fight once, in a pub, with a big guy, who had his hands around my throat until the barman took a cricket bat to him. It must be like that. Pain at first and you can't breathe and then nothing. Nothing, like before you were born.

I turn and press my forehead against the wall. My lawyer, a short, skinny, weedy guy, is making another appeal. If I had the money, I'd have a proper lawyer, who'd get me off. I clench my fists under the blanket and hit my forehead against the wall. And then again. And again. And again. The pain is better than thinking about tomorrow morning.

***

The priest comes to see me. He's old, with white hair and grey skin and his fingers are stained yellow from cigarettes. He looks at my forehead and puts a hand on my shoulder.

"Son," he says, "I think you have a troubled soul."

Maybe that's as they want to hang me tomorrow. But I don't say anything.

The priest picks up something he brought with his prayer book. "They said I could give you these," he says. It's a writing pad and pencil. "Can you try writing down what's on your mind, son? It might help. I have found others to find some peace, before the time, doing that. It doesn't matter what it's like. It would be just for me to see." The priest pats my shoulder and leaves. He doesn't try to get me to pray anymore. I'm not religious, anyway, never have been. I look at the pencil and paper. Sure I can write. I'm not dumb. I stayed around school long enough to learn that. I get up and shuffle about the cell, working some warmth into my feet and as I walk to the bars and back to the bed, I think of something. I pick up the pencil and write, Life's a shit and then you die. Then I add, get fucked. I straighten and look at the writing on the paper, twirling the pencil between my fingers. I stare at the paper for a long time.